


98.7% pure flammable polyester

by leoandsnake



Series: un jour je serai de retour [10]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Enabling, Flirting, Jean POV, M/M, Pining, Pre-Series, mid-stage alcoholism, precinct 41 dynamics, when things were still good (but the signs were already there)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 08:02:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30085983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoandsnake/pseuds/leoandsnake
Summary: Four years before Martinaise, and three months after Jean and Harry were made partners.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare
Series: un jour je serai de retour [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095374
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	98.7% pure flammable polyester

Despite the fact that going out to a bar with Harry and several other cops after work has become the bulk of Jean’s social life, Jean does not, for the most part, enjoy going out to bars with Harry.

It’s because more than anything else, he wants to _talk_ to Harry, alone and at length. This is impossible in a bar. Bars are too loud, and too crowded, and Harry becomes overserved far too fast.

Probably it’s absurd for Jean to have such a gnawing desire to talk to Harry even after work ends. They were partnered a few months ago, they have adjacent desks now, and they talk to each other all day long. Still, this doesn’t seem to matter to either of them. They still spend all day following each other around, talking to or at each other, blocking the flow of traffic in precinct hallways because they were discussing something with such intensity that it put an end to all forward locomotion. It’s become so unusual for people to see one of them without the other that when Jean goes to the kebab or coffee cart or convenience store for smokes without Harry in tow, the kebab or coffee or convenience store guy will say, “Where’s your friend?”

After work, of course they still follow each other around — they’re not done talking. There’s so much to say about everything that there don’t seem to be enough hours in the day.

Harry has made an unbreakable habit of drinking after work, and Jean wouldn’t expect this to change just because he arrived on the scene. He is all too aware of the fact that his crush on Harry doesn’t make Harry his property. Harry is ten years his senior, a lieutenant who is already overdue for a promotion, a grown man of forty who is set in his ways. Jean was never going to change Harry. If anything, Harry is already changing Jean.

So, for the most part, Jean is fine with Harry’s drinking. And for the most part, Harry’s drinking only toes the line of being excessive. When they’re in Jean’s apartment, or Harry’s apartment, or someone else’s apartment, he keeps it under control. If Harry stays within the range of 3-5 drinks, he’s fine. The sadness that seems to always plague him lifts, and he becomes even funnier, more lively, more talkative. Everyone in the vicinity starts to flock to the handsome, charismatic, rakish cop who is holding court at the end of the bar or performing karaoke with infectious passion.

He also tends to get handsy with Jean — slinging an arm around him, rubbing his shoulders, putting a companionable hand on Jean’s thigh — which Jean loves and jerks off while thinking about, once he’s alone in his apartment at the end of the night.

Past five drinks, Harry starts to veer into the abyss. On a good night, he just gets incoherent and babbles, which creates a melancholy in Jean, who misses his friend. You can’t talk to someone if they’re stupid with drink, and Jean, more than anything else, just wants to talk to Harry. On a bad night, Harry gets belligerent, starting arguments and sometimes bar fights. He also ragdolls — falling down stairs and busting his forehead open, turning into corpse-like dead weight when they try to shove him into the backseat of someone’s car to take him home, staggering around and knocking people over like they’re bowling pins.

So this is why Jean generally wants to keep Harry away from bars. At house parties and smaller gatherings, everyone knows to keep Harry to a certain amount of drinks, and when it’s just the two of them, Jean can control the flow of liquor or introduce cannabis into the situation, lulling Harry into goofy relaxation. But at all the bars on Boogie Street, Harry is a well-known mark for bartenders, because he drinks like a machine and tips extravagantly.

Tonight is a Friday, and they’re out at a cop bar with a bunch of other cops, so Jean is expecting to deal with +5 Drinks Harry, and limits himself to two drinks to compensate for this. By around 23:00, Harry is seven drinks deep, but it seems like tonight isn’t going to be a bad night. He hasn’t mentioned his ex yet, nor has he gotten into a bellicose argument with some random person about whether or not disco is actually dead. (Being thirty years old, Jean is quite sure that disco is dead, but he knows better by now than to try to insist on this to Harry.) In fact, he’s in good spirits.

This is probably because he and Jean closed three cases this week, one after the other, bam bam bam. Probably also for this reason, Harry is being very affectionate with Jean, introducing him to everyone in the bar with pride and dragging him to and fro with his arm locked around Jean’s shoulders, offering repeatedly to buy him drinks.

He’s becoming pretty incoherent, yes, but this doesn’t bother Jean as much as usual. Jean himself is exhausted by their long week and fine with being dragged around the bar. All he really wants to do is hang out near Harry and smoke cigarettes until it’s time to go to bed.

They can usually get away with smoking inside this bar, at least when the rough-hewn lady bartender they’re friends with is working, but tonight at shift change, a stranger comes on and kicks them out. “Smoke those outside,” he orders them. “It gets into the fabric on the seats, makes them stink like shit.”

“I am a police lieutenant,” Harry slurs at him, waving his lit cigarette around like a scepter.

“You can go smoke in the alley, Mister Police Lieutenant.”

Harry calls him an asshole but agreeably heads for the alley. Jean, of course, follows him. What else? This has become his life. Also, he wants to finish his own cigarette.

The cobblestone alley is wet from this morning’s rain and smells of street and garbage. A puddle of fuel oil is seeping out from underneath a nearby dumpster, and neon lights and streetlights are flooding the edges of Jean’s vision, making him blink. They’re facing East Clay Avenue, a major artery of Boogie Street, and cars rush by every few seconds. He can hear a distant siren.

Jean brings his cigarette back to his mouth and takes a very deep drag, then turns to Harry, who’s leaning against the door they came out of and smiling at him. Jean’s stomach flutters. He averts his gaze out of self-preservation.

Sometimes the constant talking feels more protective than anything. If they’re talking, they’re not thinking about the sexual tension — that is, if Harry is even aware of the sexual tension. Jean genuinely can’t tell if he is or not. When they’re quiet, it seems to fill the space between them like cotton, and Harry starts to stare at him like he is right now, so Jean can’t imagine how he’s not aware of it. But heterosexual men are stupid like that.

“What are you looking at?” Jean says to him, still not meeting his gaze.

“You,” Harry says. He points to the ground near Jean’s feet. “I can look at that rat instead, if you want.”

Jean follows his pointing finger, then jumps a little. There is, in fact, a rat, and it’s massive. It skitters away under the nearby dumpster in response to him jumping.

He turns back to Harry, who’s laughing in between smoker’s coughs.

“Fuck you,” Jean says, also laughing.

Harry stops coughing and shivers, straightening his back against the door. His jacket is missing, and he’s wearing only a ridiculous peach-colored polyester dress shirt that his chest hair is peeking out of. 

“Where’s your jacket?” Jean says.

Harry shrugs and gestures behind him toward the bar. “Somewhere in there. Come warm me up.”

Jean returns to his side, and Harry slings a warm, heavy arm around his shoulders, nuzzling up against him. He’s swaying on his feet, clinging to Jean to stay upright. 

Harry buries his face in Jean’s neck, making electricity shoot up and down his spine and making him shudder involuntarily. He steadies himself against the thick door behind him as Harry’s body becomes more inert.

“I’m so drunk,” Harry moans, his breath hot against Jean’s throat.

Jean’s gut flips and his dick twitches, but he remains outwardly cool. “I can tell.”

Harry lifts his head slightly and grins. He stares into Jean’s eyes, his own eyes bleary and glazed. “I’m a bad man,” he says.

Jean’s gut flips again, harder this time. “Are you?”

“I’m a very bad man,” he says, continuing to stare at Jean.

“Why?”

Harry doesn’t reply, just smiles.

“Do you want my jacket?”

Harry shakes his head. “Then _you’ll_ be cold.”

“I can be cold for a minute,” Jean says, and smokes his cigarette somewhat frantically. If Harry doesn’t stop staring at him like this, he’s going to get a hard-on.

Harry ignores this, instead choosing to press his forehead against Jean’s, which is even worse than the staring. Jean swallows, doing his best to remain calm. With breath that reeks of grain alcohol and cigarette smoke, Harry murmurs in his face, “I’m a bad man… you should stay away from me, Jean-Jean.”

Jean’s heart is pounding so hard that he’s losing the ability to draw breath. “That’s going to be a little hard,” he murmurs back, “since you got us made partners.”

Harry smiles. In the darkness and in such proximity, all Jean can see of his face is his smile, his gleaming white teeth and the cleft chin below. “I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“I guess I am. Why are you a bad man?”

“I think bad thoughts.”

“Like what?”

Again, Harry doesn’t answer. He bows his head further and rubs his cheek against Jean’s, scraping their facial hair together. His neck stinks of aftershave, but it doesn’t cover the smells of booze or smoke.

Jean, on a crazy impulse, leans forward into the lapels of Harry’s ridiculous dress shirt and inhales, catching a whiff of the dried sweat that’s impregnated the cheap material. This only makes the situation worse for him, because now he’s truly yearning for Harry to shove his large, capable hands down the front of his pants and give Jean some relief from the ache of pining for exactly that.

Harry seems to have other things on his mind; he’s simply clinging to Jean like he’s desperate for the comfort of human touch as well as the warmth of another body. It is, after all, November. His arms envelop Jean completely — he has a bizarrely long wingspan. He once told Jean that he was a swimmer in his youth.

“Sergeant Jean-Jean,” he mumbles.

“Satellite-Officer Jean-Jean,” Jean corrects him.

“If someone from work saw us right now,” Harry says, “they would definitely get the wrong idea. They would think I was trying to fuck you.” He starts laughing about this.

“Ha-ha,” Jean says, with zero enthusiasm.

“McCoy thinks we’re funny. He says you run around after me like a puppy.”

Jean feels a stab of hurt, and an upswing in his dislike of McCoy. “Is that what you think I do?”

“No, no, God no,” Harry says, resting his chin on Jean’s shoulder and staggering again. Jean steadies him. “No.” He sounds downright offended. “We’re partners. I need your brain. I love your brain.”

“Thank you,” Jean says, while trying to shift Harry’s weight off of him and onto the door behind them. 

Harry straightens up a little and takes Jean’s face in his hands, staring at him again, skimming his fingers over Jean’s skull behind his ears and ruffling his hair. “If we could put our brains together,” he slurs, “like, if we could become one guy, that guy would be such a good cop.”

“That sounds like a bad radio drama,” Jean tells him.

Harry laughs. “You balance me out,” he says. “You’re good. I haven’t had a partner who did that, before. You’re like the first real partner I’ve had. We’re it, man, I feel like we could do anything.”

“I feel that way, too.”

“See, and I _know_ you do.” Harry puts a clumsy finger to his own forehead, then presses it to Jean’s. “One brain, Vicquemare.”

Jean finishes his cigarette and stomps it out. He notices Harry’s burned to the filter in his fingers while he’s been talking. “Is going back inside something we can do?”

Harry smiles at him again. “Yeah.” He turns and fumbles with the handle of the door behind them, then shoves it open, stumbling back into the loud darkness of the bar.

Jean follows.


End file.
